


my head is hanging heavy with the thoughts of him in mind

by guti



Category: Football RPF
Genre: English National Team, Euro 2004, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 16:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10768320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/pseuds/guti
Summary: (a man's a man who looks a man right between the eyes)the tale of a hook-up in oeiras.





	my head is hanging heavy with the thoughts of him in mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SixPonderous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixPonderous/gifts).



> Prompt: Once, back in the day, Jamie & Gary hooked up during an England call up. This is that story.

Even at eleven o’clock at night, the June heat is oppressive. Oeiras is a nice enough little suburb, the hotel set away enough that the streets quiet down at night and allow for some semblance of quiet and solitude, but it’s positively sweltering, the sort of dry warmth that Jamie doesn’t think he could ever get used to. For being kept in a modern hotel, the lack of a decent air conditioning system is a real drawback to the entire experience. But they’re so close to the ocean, he’d expect there to be a breeze or something to cool the evening off, but it’s just too damn hot that even with the sliding door of the patio open a crack he can’t seem to get his body temperature down. It’s like being in an oven and being baked alive. 

He turns on the television to a sports channel, puts it on mute, kicks the blankets off the bed and onto the floor, rolls onto his side, continues to sweat. He’s never been able to fall asleep easily in his own bed anyway, let alone on the road, _let alone_ on the eve of a major tournament. No wonder he can’t relax, he’d be an idiot if he weren't buzzing over the chance to play in the Euro.

Not that he’ll even get a chance to play. With King in the squad, Jamie’s assured his place for the tournament will be on the bench. But he’s with them in Portugal, dammit, and he’s not a slacker. He works every bit as hard as the other lads do, and he’s going to enjoy every last moment of the experience and apply whatever he learns toward the future.

And moreover, the Euro would be a change of scene that after such an unremarkable season in Liverpool. Sure, there’s the promise of Champions League football next season, but coming in fourth behind United and crashing out of cup tournaments to the likes of Portsmouth and Bolton Wanderers left quite a sour taste in his mouth. Jamie wants more, he wants some of that glory that seemed to be going around in abundance to every side but his. And they’ve got a decent English side for once, so even if he spends the entire month watching on, he’ll at least be along to celebrate in the end.

It’s a satisfying little notion, bring home some silverware in the end. It’s the sort of idea that makes his stomach twist in knots of expectation. It’s the sort of thought that makes it even more difficult to fall asleep.

He lets out an exhausted sigh as he sits up in his bed and he kicks his legs over the side, stretching his limbs lazily. There’s a snooker game on the television; his whole hotel room is bathed in a greenish glow from the screen, flickering gently as the colored balls glide across the table. Jamie ignores it all as he pads across the hard hotel carpet toward the open glass door, and without a word he steps outside into the hot June night.

It’s silent, save for a bit of traffic down the block, but there isn’t even a hint of a breeze to cool him off, which is a damn shame because Jamie was really counting on that to relax him. He exhales, shuffling toward the rail to lean against it and take in the view of the city when something catches his eye, just to his right. Two balconies over there’s another figure out there slumped against the railing. Jamie squints and it takes him a few pointed seconds to make out who it is. But when he does, he cracks a sly little smile.

“Oi, Neville,” he hisses, just loud enough that his voice carries through the still night air, catching the other man’s attention. “What’re you doing up?”

At first, the figure doesn’t react to him at all, and Jamie wonders if maybe Gary hasn’t heard him— or worse, if he’s somehow misidentified him in the moonlight. But after a pause, Gary turns to face him, and even across the distance and in the dark, Jamie’s sure he can make out a scowl.

“I could ask you the same thing,” comes the whisper back. “It’s match day tomorrow.”

Jamie scoffs, answering before he can help himself, “Sure, but between us two, we both know only one of us will be starting tomorrow night, and 10-p says it won’t be me.” 

Gary doesn’t say anything at first, and Jamie’s almost word he’s set himself up for a lecture— or _worse_ , some sort of escalated taunting, so he braces himself for impact. It doesn’t come, though, and instead Gary surprises him by mumbling, “You still ought to get some rest, you know.”

“Can’t,” Jamie says, scooting along the railing until he’s as close to Gary as can be without climbing onto the next balcony. “Not tired. Besides, it’s too damn hot to sleep.”

Across on his own balcony, Jamie can see Gary shaking his head, probably in exasperation. If Jamie were a betting man, which on occasion he is, he’d wager that Gary Neville wasn’t expecting to have his outdoor moonlight meditation interrupted by a sweating and shirtless scouser dying of a heat stroke a couple of balconies over. In spite of himself, Jamie finds that he’s smiling, slightly satisfied that he’s made Neville bristle a bit.

“What’re you doing out here anyway?” Jamie asks, resting his chin in one of his palms. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you up at this hour.”

Gary really does bristle at that, though the scowl’s gone now. Jamie can’t quite make out his expression anymore. 

“Can’t sleep either,” he says quietly, and somehow Jamie thinks he sort of understands it, what might make someone as exceptionally uptight as Neville feel restless and unable to sleep on the night before a big tournament. For Jamie, the insomnia is natural, the heat only compounds his normal state of being. He’s just about certain that Gary hardly ever has sleepless nights. 

Before he can stop his mind from going down a strange and unfamiliar path, Jamie stands up straight, gesturing with his shoulder toward the sliding glass door. “Come over here then.”

Though he’s veiled in shadows, Jamie is sure Gary’s expression is a comical one. “What? Are you mad?”

“There’s a snooker match on.”

“A snooker match.” Gary repeats the words like a parrot, as though he’s utterly unsure of the meanings of the words he’s just said.

“It’s a distraction,” Jamie offers weakly, catching the hesitation in Gary’s reaction. “To get your mind off tomorrow. Nothing quite like billiards to make you fall asleep.” 

Jamie knows how stupid it sounds as soon as he says it. There’s nothing to stop Gary from turning on the sports channel in his own room. There’s nothing actually enticing Gary to come over. In fact, there’s he doesn't even know what’s possessed him to invite him over in the first place. They’re not close. Jamie wouldn’t even really say they’re friends, let alone the types to hang out in a hotel room well after curfew. It’s not like how it is with him and Stevie, or how Gary is with those other United bastards. And yet… Jamie can sense a shift between them. Something changes as they stand there silently in the heat of the night, eyeing each other in the stillness, chests heaving as they watch one another.

Then, seemingly from nothing, Gary nods. Jamie’s eyes widen a little as he hears the words drifting toward him, “Can’t be any worse than yelling across a balcony in the middle of the night.”

“I’ll go open the door,” Jamie says pointlessly, looking over his shoulder toward his hotel room. By the time he glances back, Gary’s already gone.

He takes one last breath and lets the heat swell over him before he pushes back the curtains and heads inside, pulling the sliding door shut behind him. The television is still on, it’s still the fifth frame of the game, but Jamie pays it no mind. Instead he gives the room a quick glance over, just in case there’s something weird or incriminating left out. Not that there is, or anything, he just…

He glances toward the main door and wonders what he’s doing, only to be promptly interrupted by a soft knocking. Jamie swallows, and without any further ado, he opens the door and lets Gary in.

The door falls shut behind them and Jamie stands in silence while Gary walks the floor, wordlessly debating sitting in the chair or on the foot of Jamie’s rumpled bed. After a second, he opts for the latter, and Jamie follows him, dropping into the unforgiving cushions, angling it slightly so he’s more facing Gary on the bed than the television and the wall.

For his part, Gary seems almost nervous. He’s barely even looked up at the snooker game, eyes fixed on the strange floral pattern on the comforter.

“What are you sitting all the way over there for?” He asks abruptly. Jamie snaps his head around quickly to look at Gary. He almost feels compelled to shiver from the unfamiliar, vulnerable look in Gary’s eyes. He looks wild, scared, unlike Jamie’s ever really seen him before.

“What?” Jamie croaks, feeling his stomach drop.

Gary looks almost embarrassed for a moment before he rolls his eyes toward Jamie. The colors on the television shift, casting dark shadows across his face. It has a sort of hypnotic effect, and Jamie finds he can’t look away.

“You asked me ‘round for a snog, didn’t you?” Gary’s voice cracks a little. Jamie’s eyes go wide and he blinks a few times, his heart thundering like a locomotive about to go off the tracks. He opens his mouth but he isn’t sure what to say, and Gary cuts him off anyway, shifting nervously toward him, his cheeks darkening even in the dim light. “’S why you asked me here, isn’t it?”

“I—” Jamie starts, pauses, has to sort it out for himself. Is this real life? Is Gary fucking Neville seriously coming on to him? Is Gary fucking Neville legitimately convinced that he’s been invited over for some heavy petting on the eve of the Euros? With _him_? If it weren’t so preposterous, Jamie would cackle in his face!

… Or rather, if he were thinking properly, and if Gary didn’t look quite so appealing, he’d laugh in his face. Instead of half-stumbling, half-crawling out of the confines of the chair and basically onto Gary’s lap, heat and sweat and humidity be damned, with a real determination to kiss the man. 

And he does, and it’s a mess of saliva and perspiration and need. They collide together in a hungry tangle of limbs, grunting and gasping in a struggle for dominance, lips on lips, teeth bared, pushing against each other until Gary hefts Jamie onto his back near the center of the bed. Gary straddles him, fumbling to get his t-shirt off as he keeps Jamie pinned between his thighs, and only now does Jamie get a chance to catch his breath and really think about the situation.

Honestly, the thought had never crossed his mind more than the once of twice he’d caught himself sizing Neville up over the years. But distant admiration and the desire to do something entirely stupid like shag him. _That_ idea never occurred until moments ago, and for whatever bloody reason, it feels sort of alright. It felt alright, alright. It felt good, actually, logical senses be damned. He’s about to very literally sleep with the enemy, but in the moment, he can’t say that he’s at all bothered. Maybe it’s the promise of tournament glory that’s altered his perception, or perhaps it’s just the sweltering heat. Regardless, he has a man on top of him who is very clearly game for whatever, and that is just fine with Jamie.

He’s pulled back into the moment as Gary’s hands trace down his chest and over the uneven scars of his stomach. Jamie almost flinches, suddenly self-conscious, but Gary doesn’t say a word. Instead he leans down and their lips meet again, less forceful this time, but every bit as desperate as before. Jamie can feel himself relax and begin to give in to the pleasure, only to realize a second later that he’s starting to get hard.

“Fuck,” he breathes against Gary’s throat, lips catching on his stubble. Gary makes a similar noise, and Jamie is then aware that he’s not the only one of them who is wildly turned on. For whatever reason, the thrill goes straight to Jamie’s cock and he somehow feels himself getting harder.

Gary shifts off of him and onto his side, and Jamie hurriedly pulls off his shorts, shucking them aside without care. Gary does the same, and for a few seconds the two of them stare at each other, taking the moment in. 

“I’ll go down on you,” Gary says quietly. Jamie’s eyes go wide and he nods, slack-jawed as Gary reaches down to stroke his erection. “You want me to suck you off, Carra?”

He nods again, more forcefully this time, and lets out a small gasp as Gary gets to work. Gary licks the slit of his cock at first, slowly, almost gingerly before closing his eyes and taking as much of Jamie into his throat as he can handle. His mouth is so hot, so wet, and his tongue is doing something _maddening_. Jamie’s eyes flutter and before he can stop himself, he lets out a plaintive, “ _Fuck_.”

Gary very nearly growls in approval, taking his time to slowly tease him with his tongue as he strokes Jamie’s cock with one hand and cups his balls with the other. After about a minute, Jamie arches up on his elbows so he can stare down his torso and watch Gary at his work.

“You got the perfect mouth for that, Neville,” Jamie exhales, suddenly emboldened and impossibly aroused. “You like sucking cock?”

Gary pulls back slightly, dark eyes flashing wickedly with the illuminated screen behind him. He licks his lips, an eyebrow raised quickly, before resuming. He bobs his head quicker though, in tandem with his hand, and before Jamie fully recognizes what’s happening, his orgasm hits him and he helplessly thrusts upward. His eyes close and he groans, breath catching in his throat as his muscles contract, his cum spilling into Gary’s mouth. And Gary just takes it, languidly licking his lips as he pulls away.

It takes longer than he’d care to admit for Jamie to regain his composure, and all he can do in the mean time is watch as Gary uses the top sheet to wipe his mouth. Jamie’s suddenly slightly uncomfortable, unsure what to do or say to set everything back to normal again. He opts for banter.

“Is that what they teach you in Manchester?”

Gary looks over his shoulder at him, and Jamie feels quite unsure as to whether or not he’s taking the bait. “Are you really asking me that, or are you gonna do the decent thing and reciprocate?”

Jamie bristles slightly, cracking a surprised smile. “Sex before a match, Neville? We both know you’ll be starting tomorrow. The gaffer finds out and he’ll have your head.”

“Gaffer’s not gonna hear about it, is he,” Gary says, eyes narrowing.

“Of course not,” Jamie answers with a little smirk, forcing himself to sit up. “Come on, let’s do it in the shower. Less of a mess in there. And we’ll put the tap on cold, even.” He says that last part like it’s the highlight of the event.

Gary watches closely as Jamie finds his feet and shuffles around the side of the bed, tentatively taking Jamie’s hand when it is offered, and the pair walk hand in hand into the bathroom.

Afterward, when they’ve both toweled themselves off and are pulling their bed clothes back on, Gary reaches out to touch Jamie’s stomach, to run his fingers over the pale raised scars that take the place of his navel. Jamie inhales sharply, watching Gary’s expression closely.

“I always wondered about these,” Gary says, almost to himself. He looks up to Jamie quickly, tries to smile weakly.

“I’ve had ‘em since I was a baby,” Jamie answers plainly. “There’s no secret about ‘em or nothing. Just not especially attractive is all.”

Gary’s nose scrunches. “Do they hurt?”

Jamie shakes his head. “It’s fine.” Then he reaches to cup Gary’s chin, fingers snagging on his stubble and paltry goatee. “This though…”

Gary’s face becomes even more comical. “What are you—”

“You ought to shave off this travesty, before you injure anyone else.” Jamie can’t help but let out a sharp cackle. “I swear I can still feel your muzzy on my thighs.”

“And with that, I’m leaving,” Gary says with a huff. “One of us has a match to play tonight, Carragher, and the more rest I’ve got, the better.”

“Suit yourself then,” Jamie says, following Gary toward the door. Gary reaches for the handle, pausing for just a moment, just long enough that Jamie can easily catch his arm and pull him in and kiss him on the back of the neck before he goes. Gary doesn’t resist at all. He gives into the embrace for a moment before patting Jamie on the thigh, and then disappearing into the hallway.

The hotel room is still impossibly hot, though the shower’s helped (and the blow job too.) Jamie presses the power button on the television as he passes by on his way toward the glass door, which he pulls slightly open once again. The room is quiet, the lights off, and finally, despite the intense heat that he hasn’t fully been able to shake, Jamie Carragher falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> \- title is from manchester's own [graham nash](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DVdqNXINjBs)  
> \- set on the eve of [this clusterfuck](https://youtu.be/05ds1Q5vFEY) at euro 2004  
> \- thank you to several folks i will list after reveals for their words of encouragement


End file.
